Emotional Context
by Funky Ceili
Summary: Post 4x3: "The Final Problem." Sherlock and Molly deal with the aftermath of the phone call. Sherlolly. Eventual smuttyness.
1. Chapter 1

She knew immediately who was knocking loudly at her door at 3 am. Nearly sixteen hours had passed since "the three words" and then the telephone line abruptly disconnecting. She sighed and slowly made her way to the front door. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Sherlock," she spoke loudly through the door, "please go away. I don't want to see you now."

"Molly, please let me in. Please." The urgency of the "please" brought back his tone from the phone call. She tried to will the memory from her mind.

"Not now, Sherlock, please. Go away." No response came from the other side of the door. She waited a minute and then turned wearily back toward bed. Just then she heard the key turn in the lock. "Oh Jesus Christ." And, in the next instance, there he stood, looking absolutely knackered. But right now she was in no mood to be sympathetic to whatever horrors he had doubtless undergone to make him look this bedraggled. "Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, I'd take away your goddamn key if I knew you wouldn't just break in some other way. Why can't you just this once respect my wishes and go away?"

"Molly," he pleaded, extending his bandaged hand toward her, attempting to touch her arm, "I need to explain."

She angrily withdrew backwards from his touch and, through clenched teeth, said, "Um, I think I got the gist of it from the bomb-sniffing dogs set loose and the multiple hidden cameras removed from my flat by Mycroft's men. Thanks."

"Molly, I never meant . . . "

"Of course, you never 'mean' to, Sherlock," she spit out. "It's all a part of the Sherlock Holmes experience, right? A psychotic criminal mastermind dates you only to get to Sherlock? Check. Have to help fake someone's death and then lie about it for two years to a dear, trusted friend? Check. Be the object of some sick game from one of Sherlock's many enemies? Check. Have your apartment bugged with video devices? Humiliate yourself over and over again while looking like some pathetic, lovesick puppy? Check and check. So now how much would you pay for the complete Sherlock Holmes experience? Hmmmm?"

Sherlock could only croak out a weak "Molly, I . . . "

"I'm sure there's a perfectly wonderful explanation as to why I had to undergo this latest round of utter humiliation and I'm sure that that explanation totally exculpates you in some way and makes me sound like an hysterical shrew. But, right now, Sherlock, I don't want to hear it and I want you to fucking leave."

He turned glumly toward the door, only uttering one last "as you wish," before leaving the poor woman alone. When the door finally closed, Molly slumped down onto her sofa and hugged a pillow to her chest.

* * *

At no time, thought Sherlock, making his way toward his temporary lodgings with John, had he wanted the sweet release of a narcotic as much as he did at this precise moment. The shock and awe of dealing with his discovery of Euros and the twisted labyrinth of mental tortures his sister had put him through—and now Molly . . . his mind coursed with her cutting words—"all a part of the Sherlock Holmes experience." She was right, of course. His friendship—no, his love (as he had made a vow to be more honest, more conscious of his emotions, aware of the "emotional context," as Euros called it)—demanded too much of Molly and gave nothing in recompense.

Not for the first time when it came to Molly, Sherlock castigated himself: "You're such a fucking prick, Sherlock Holmes." He had come prepared to explain himself fully to Molly, to beg her forgiveness. And, what's more, being the self-centered, entitled bastard he was, he fully expected to get that forgiveness. That's how daft you are, he thought: you thought you could just explain everything and she'd forgive you as she's done for time out of mind. And then, in his imagination, the scene had instead played out with them embracing, him whispering in her ear "I meant it, I love you." The bedroom seemed a logical place for the scene to conclude, he had thought on the helicopter ride back to London earlier. He had imagined quite vividly the frenetic kissing, the mutual needs, finally fulfilled. He had had to hide his budding erection with his coat over his lap as he imagined slowly undressing her and what it would be like to see her naked and ready for him. Her legs spread . . .

"Stop it," he yelled to his own mind now, as he thought again about his naïve and unreal expectations versus the horrible reality of what actually played out in Molly's flat minutes ago and wondered how stupid he could have been to think it could have played out any other way. So, yes, narcotics would be a welcome release indeed. And then, as if sense memory could come alive and replicate a moment exactly, he felt again the sting of Molly's slaps on his cheeks not so very long ago and her "how dare you." Did he dare now?


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson awoke at 8:30 am, still groggy from the hellish proceedings of the last 36 hours. After a confused shake of the head, he checked the clock. When he realized how late it was, given Rosie's penchant for getting up between 5:30 and 6:00, he panicked and ran out of his bedroom toward Rosie's nursery, scared that something was wrong with the baby. The words "crib death" and "Sudden Infant Death Syndrome" filled his terrified mind.

But, when he entered the child's room and saw the empty crib, another fear took hold. He ran for the cell phone charging in the kitchen to call the police. When he rounded the corner into the living room and saw Sherlock rocking Rosie, he almost screamed for fright, but Sherlock put his index finger to his lips and shushed his friend.

John walked over and looked at the little girl, sleeping peacefully, angelic in Sherlock's arms.

"She made a little noise around 5:30," Sherlock explained in a whisper. "I figured you could use the sleep. She's been changed, fed, and we've played with, at my count, at least two dozen different toys to varying degrees of dissatisfaction. She's finally worn out, the only evidence I've found in this universe yet that there might actually be a merciful God." John reached down and picked Rosie up from Sherlock's arms, proceeded to walk her back down into her nursery, and put her down in her crib.

When John came back out, Sherlock had begun to make coffee and seemed to be preparing breakfast for both of them.

"Um, thank you," John said, a little surprised by the Sherlock he saw before him. "That was, um, very nice of you."

"Well, it was either come back here and wait for Rosie to wake or contact my old drug providers and get fantastically wasted," Sherlock confessed.

"In that case, I'm glad you chose Rosie." John had indeed feared what effect Euros's mind games would have upon his friend and had wondered whether Sherlock's fragile sobriety would be tested by the thorough "vivisection" (as Sherlock called it) at the hands of his psychopathic sister. Although he was glad Sherlock resisted the temptation, he nonetheless worried that Sherlock's state could collapse at any time.

"You ran off as soon as the helicopter landed last night," John continued. "Molly?"

Sherlock weakly nodded his head in response.

"Oh." After a second, John tried to be upbeat. "It's too soon, Sherlock. Why, it hasn't even been a day, for God's sake. Give her time. She'll forgive you."

"Maybe. Maybe I don't want her to forgive me." John raised an eyebrow at that. "Maybe I want her to get as far away from me as she can. Go to the far ends of the world away from where I am. A place where she can be safe and happy."

"So you really do love her, then?" At John's words, a single tear traced down Sherlock's cheek. But he quickly wiped it away.

"I have to keep busy. The renovations can start at 221B as soon as possible and, in the meantime, cases—new cases. A busy mind is best for me."

John looked dubious. "What about Molly then?"

"I'll find somewhere else to run my experiments. I'll stay away from St. Bart's. Find a new pathologist to work with." Sherlock seemed to be convincing himself as much as John.

"No other pathologist in London will work with you, Sherlock. I think the British Association of Pathologists actually passed a resolution saying you could 'go to hell.'"

"Well then I'll build my own damn lab in the basement. Now, are you going to help me or not?"

John eyed him in frustration, but ultimately said "Yes, Sherlock, I am going to help you. But I need to arrange child care for Rosie today. I had planned to be home all day. Let me make some calls, get dressed, and then I need to go out and buy some groceries and nappies and things. Watch Rosie until I get back, OK?"

Sherlock nodded.

* * *

John had been gone for three quarters of an hour or so when the doorbell rang, waking Rosie. Sherlock ran to the door and opened it; he had expected the new part-time nanny John had hired or maybe Mrs. Hudson, but, of course, he should have known that John would call Molly. John was never one for non-intervention, he thought wryly. An extremely awkward moment at the door ensued as Sherlock and Molly stared at each other. But it wasn't long before Rosie's escalating cry startled them from their mutual shock.

"I have to go get Rosie," Sherlock said, running toward the nursery and leaving the door open for Molly to enter. Molly took a deep breath and walked into the living room to find Sherlock emerging from the nursery with Rosie in arms, putting a pacifier in her mouth. The baby was smiling and Molly couldn't help but smile at the sight them.

"John called me."

Sherlock interrupted almost before she finished her sentence. "Yes, I had no idea, I assure you. He's out shopping. He'll be back soon."

"Ok." She walked over toward Sherlock and the baby and held her hands out for the girl. As he handed Rosie to Molly, Sherlock couldn't help noticing that Molly smelled like strawberries. He knew it was her shampoo. The first time he had used Molly's flat as a bolthole, he had been forced to use the strawberry-scented shampoo for himself. He complained to Molly about it and she had bought a separate shampoo just for him.

"Molly, what brand of shampoo do you use?" The question had slipped out, so desperate was he to know the brand of shampoo so he could buy it later. Oh God, he thought, how pathetic you have become, Sherlock Holmes.

She appeared taken-aback by the randomness of the question. "Um, eh, Fruitesse. Why on earth?"

He tried to cover for himself. "It's . . . for research. Hair follicles. Different scents and such. Identification."

"Oh, yes, of course." She seemed to buy the explanation even though he had thought what he had said sounded like word salad.

She sat down on the floor to play with Rosie. "Did she eat all of her breakfast?"

"Yes, well, all the bits that actually made it to her mouth, yes. She apparently only likes food right now if it's delivered by means of an airplane. And airdrops can never, by their very nature, be 100% accurate. So quite a bit of it landed on her face and the surrounding countryside." Molly laughed. He loved her laugh and found that he loved to make her laugh. He suddenly wished he had done it more often.

"Oh, I have some spleens for you," Molly said, to a very confused Sherlock.

"Spleens? I'm afraid I don't . . . "

"Yes, you asked for some spleens to run some experiments a few weeks ago. I was finally able to procure them. Whenever you want to work on them, just let me know."

"Oh, yes. I remember. Seems ages ago now." After a second, Sherlock continued, confused. "Um, work on them? At St. Bart's? With you?"

Molly furrowed her eyebrows in response. "Yes, of course. Please don't tell me you're going to take them back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson warned you after the thumbs incident."

"I assumed you didn't want to work with me anymore."

"Oh yes, well," Molly said, understanding, taking a deep breath. "I am a professional, Sherlock. Your work is important. I would never let personal issues interfere with solving crimes."

Sherlock's slight hope deflated at that. Professionalism, of course. Nothing more.

"Besides," she added, "no one else will work with you. The British Association of Pathologists passed a resolution."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

At that moment, John walked in, carrying groceries. "Oh, good. Rosie's godparents, how lovely."

Sherlock glowered at him while John smirked in response.


	3. Chapter 3

Although a busy day at the morgue generally meant bad tidings for the rest of the world, Molly Hooper welcomed the distraction today. She could bury herself (sometimes a little too literally) in the bodies she would need to dissect. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one that liked puzzles. Every body had a story and Molly Hooper loved figuring out just what story those bodies told.

Yesterday she had invited Sherlock to examine the spleens she had procured for him, but she so hoped that he would not show up today. She wasn't ready yet. Today she wanted to put Sherlock Holmes out of her mind as much as possible, to throw herself into her work and to go home so tired that she would not waste two seconds in bed thinking of Sherlock.

How tired would I have to be, she asked herself, not to think of him tonight at all? Maybe I should work a double shift to be extra tired, she thought. She knew all too well what could happen if she lay awake too long with Sherlock on her mind. Eventually her hands would wander beneath her pajama waistband and she'd begin eventually to pleasure herself, imagining Sherlock's hands and Sherlock's mouth moving down her . . .

"Dr. Hooper?" She spun around to see Mycroft Holmes staring at her with concern. "Are you alright? You look quite flush. May I fetch you a water or a tea?"

"Um, no, I'm fine, just a bit overworked today. Uh, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?"

"Well, it's a matter of some delicacy."

"Does it concern Sherlock?" Please let the answer be no, please be no, she pleaded internally.

"Yes, it does."

Crap.

"I need you to formally identify some remains that have just a preliminary ID."

Oh, thank God, a body. I can handle a body, she thought. But, then, after the initial relief, she reconsidered: "what does the body have to do with Sherlock then?"

"Bones, no body _per se_. If the bones do indeed belong to who we think they do, then they are the remains of Victor Trevor, a little boy that went missing thirty years ago."

Confused, she asked, "Is this a case Sherlock has been working on?"

"In a way, yes," Mycroft said, clearly having difficulty getting the story out. "In a way, every case has been this case."

"I'm afraid you're not making any sense, Mr. Holmes."

"Has Sherlock not explained this all to you? I assumed that's what he was doing at your flat two days ago in the early morning hours: explaining circumstances."

"How did you know he . . . " But before she finished asking the question, Mycroft raised one eyebrow. "Oh, yes, of course. Nevermind. Um, no, our conversation was very brief that night. I didn't want any details, but, I mean—" she looked now at the bag of bones in Mycroft's hands, "—the bones, I mean, the boy, how does he fit in to . . . "

"So you don't know about Euros then? Any of it? Surely he gave you some context for the phone call at least?"

She winced at the mention of the call. "No, I . . . "

"Really? None of it?" Mycroft was incredulous. "The coffin? The 'release code'? Nothing?"

Molly shook her head in confusion.

"Well, then, I think I should probably start from the beginning. Perhaps a cup of tea for us both would be in order? And perhaps we can sit somewhere away the smell of formaldehyde if you wouldn't mind? I've been around death too much this week and could use a bit of a reprieve. Plus, the story is a long one and goes back several decades."

* * *

Her teachers in medical school had marveled at the young Molly Hooper and her iron stomach. While other pupils, no matter how in control they appeared to be, would eventually wretch at some inevitable gruesomeness for which they had been unprepared, Molly Hooper, it seemed, was made of steel. Neither burned flesh nor the worst rancid alimentary smells would faze her. Her icy and hard professionalism contrasted sharply against her soft and warm demeanor that exuded fragility.

But now, it was not the sights and smells of death that undid Molly but rather the emotional context of it all. After hearing Mycroft tell the entirety of the story that began some thirty years ago at the Holmes family estate, Molly found herself running to the bathroom and emptying her lunch into the toilet. When she emerged from the bathroom, pale and unsteady, Mycroft stood with his head down.

"I'll get another pathologist to formally identify the bones. I shouldn't have asked you to do this, Dr. Hooper. I'm sorry. Bad judgment. There is a lot of that going around these days."

Molly straightened up. "No, no, I'll do it. I want to. This boy—Victor—deserves the dignity of a proper burial and his family deserves closure. It's the least I can do for them. It's what I do." She wanted to do it for Sherlock too, she thought.

At this, Mycroft took one of her hands and covered it with his own. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper." He turned to leave and walked a few steps. Without looking back, he said, "And, um, rest assured Dr. Hooper that all surveillance video of your flat taken by my sister for the past few months have been destroyed. No other copies exist, I believe." He then continued his exit without looking back.

Past few _months_? That long? And the "I believe" statement was equally discomforting—the thought that there might just be duplicates somewhere. She thought about all the cameras Mycroft's agents had removed from her flat, from every room, including the bathroom and, oh God—the bedroom. Nudity on video was horrifying enough, but, caught on tape, masturbating? Saying Sherlock's name as she came? She felt sick again.

But Sherlock never saw that, right? Only his psychotic sister. Great, just great, she thought. For a panicked second, she wondered whether Mycroft himself had watched them, but dismissed that worry. He would have no reason to watch them, right? Oh God. She was going to throw up again. She turned toward the bathroom, intending another run to the toilet, hoping to make it in time.

Just as she turned, she ran directly into Sherlock Holmes's chest. And she could hold it no more. She wretched all over the man's shirt and his trademark Belstaff.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock," Molly choked out in utter mortification.

Sherlock took hold of both Molly's shoulders, steadying her. "Molly, what's wrong? I'm going to call John, have him come over right away to examine you."

"No, no, I'm fine, Sherlock."

"You're not fine, clearly. I'm calling John," he said as he took out his mobile phone.

Molly took hold of the phone. "Really, Sherlock. Please don't call John. I'm alright, I promise."

Sherlock looked as though he completely doubted Molly, but he lowered his mobile phone for the moment. "Then explain to me why you've just taken ill if you're fine." He seemed almost angry that Molly kept insisting that she was fine despite the evidence all over the front of him along with her ashen complexion and her increasing blush, the blush being the result, he deduced, of her unnecessary embarrassment.

"I will explain," she promised, "but first let's get you some scrubs to put on. Ok?"

"Fine, but I reserve the right to call John if I see fit."

"Sherlock, I'm in a hospital. Even if I _was_ sick, we don't need to involve John." He didn't look convinced, but he nonetheless let her lead him to the linen supply closet to pick out some clean scrubs. While he dressed, Molly stewed in her own abject misery.

Sherlock emerged from the locker room looking determined and worried. "Ok, Molly. Explain now or I call John."

"I'm so sorry. I'll pay for dry-cleaning."

"For God's sake, I don't give a shit about my clothes. Molly, what's going on? I've never seen you so much as sneeze before."

"It's nothing physical, Sherlock. It's just been . . . I don't know how to . . . that is to say, I . . . "

"Molly, pick a sentence and finish it, please."

"Mycroft was here."

Sherlock looked confused. "I'm sure Mycroft has made many a woman's stomach turn; however, I don't think even he warrants projectile vomiting. What was he doing here and what does he have to do with your being sick?"

Molly's face betrayed her sadness. She said as delicately as she could, "He had remains he needed identifying." At first, the information didn't connect for Sherlock and he appeared momentarily confused. But he quickly grasped the situation.

"Victor."

"Yes."

"I see." After an awkward pause, he continued, "And did Mycroft explain the whole . . . "

"Yes, yes, he did," she said, interrupting him. "Everything, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I should have let you explain when you came the other night."

Sherlock looked suddenly irate. "Mycroft had no right to burden you with this, with any of this." Sherlock couldn't look at Molly. On the one hand, he desperately wanted her comforting sympathy, but, on the other, he was equally angry with himself for so wanting it, for wanting to pull her back into his life, back into "The Sherlock Holmes Experience" and all its attendant misery.

"No, it's good. It's important that I know." She caressed his arm tenderly. "I can't pretend to understand what it's been like for you, but I, um . . . " Her voice caught in her throat.

"But, in any case, another pathologist can take your duties today. You've been ill. You need to go home."

"Let me work on Victor's bones. I want to do this for his family and for you, Sherlock."

"You don't owe me anything, Molly."

"Yeah, ok, but let me give his family peace. They've waited so long, not knowing." Even Sherlock couldn't argue with that. Molly continued, "I'm going to fast-track the DNA results from the bones. Try to get that done as soon as possible. Ok?"

Sherlock nodded. "But then you are going home. No arguments."

"It's going to be a long day, Sherlock. I have several corpses to examine." Sherlock looked as though he wanted to argue with her. Molly put up a finger to stop him. "You have your work and I have mine, Sherlock Holmes. And I intend to do it. No arguments."

He gave up. "Fine, then I have spleens to examine." She smiled, having apparently won an argument with Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock, for his part, merely glowered unhappily in response.

And so Molly went to work.

* * *

Everything on Molly ached by the end of her day. She had completely lost track of time. She hadn't stopped for dinner or even sat down for more than five minutes at a time. All that remained of her day was paperwork and that could wait until tomorrow. A hot bath and takeaway sounded like heaven.

She shuffled wearily down to the lab to fetch her things and finally be off for the day. Upon opening the door to the lab, she was shocked to see Sherlock still at the microscope. He looked up as she entered and she looked at the clock. It read 8:30. She had been here for twelve and a half hours. And he had been here for eight of them. How engrossing could spleens be?

"Oh, good Lord, Sherlock, why are you still here? I love spleens as much as the next person, but really . . . go home, Sherlock."

"I could say the same to you, Dr. Hooper. Go home."

"I am."

"Good. Mind if I walk you out?"

"Suit yourself."

They both readied to leave. Sherlock admired Molly's resolve and dedication to her profession, but he still didn't like to see her this tired and worn out. They walked out of St. Bart's in companionable silence. He was aware of his odd and unexpected desire to take hold of her hand as they walked. You're ridiculous, he thought.

At the curb outside the hospital, Sherlock offered to hail a cab.

"No, that's alright," she protested. "You can get one for yourself. I'm only a few streets away and I've been cooped up all day. I'd like the walk and the fresh air."

"Then I'll walk with you."

"That's really not necessary, Sherlock."

"You've had your way all day, Molly Hooper. I _will_ walk you home."

"Fine." And they started toward her apartment, walking in silence once more. Molly finally broke the silence: "So, how are your parents coping?"

"Not well. They are very angry with Mycroft, as you could well imagine. Mycroft and I met with them yesterday. It was . . . emotional."

"I should think so. To not know, all these years. Can they see her?"

"Perhaps, for the all the good it will do. Mycroft says she's completely shut down—no words, no eye contact, so sign of what's going on inside that brain of hers. I promised I'd fly down to Sherrinford tomorrow to visit, see if I can reach her somehow."

Molly nodded and they spoke no more until they reached the front door to her flat.

"Thank you for ignoring my wishes and walking me home, Sherlock, I . . . "

"I'm coming up." The straight-forwardness of Sherlock's statement surprised her and left her unable to offer any argument at first.

"Well, I . . . " But Sherlock whizzed past her and opened the front door himself and then motioned her inside, leaving her no option but to follow him. They both entered the flat and Sherlock shut the door behind them. Molly immediately offered to make them both tea.

"No." Again, his forcefulness left Molly unable to form any coherent response. "No, I'll make the tea. But first I'll draw you a bath. And while you're bathing, I'll order takeaway."

"Sherlock, that's really . . . "

"Molly," Sherlock said with more force and emphasis than she'd ever heard him use before, "go get undressed." She flushed at this and he reciprocated with his own blush. "And I'll get your bath ready." What could she do but cooperate? So she shuffled off toward her bedroom as Sherlock walked toward the bathroom.

Sherlock turned on the tap and searched Molly's toiletries until he found bubble bath and poured some in the tub. It wasn't long before the bathroom started to steam up and Sherlock turned off the tap. As he started to straighten up to leave and go make the tea, he spotted Molly's shampoo. He just couldn't resist. He picked it up, opened the cap, and inhaled deeply the strawberry-scented liquid.

He turned to see Molly, robed, standing in the doorway. "I thought you hated that shampoo."

Sherlock stood up, slightly embarrassed. "For me, um, yes, but it smells good on you. Is Chinese food OK?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. Menus are in the . . . "

"I know where they are and I know what you like." He brushed past her in the doorway. "I'll make the tea."

The food ordered and on the way to being delivered and the tea made, Sherlock approached the door to the bathroom. "Molly? I have some tea for you. Would you like some now?"

"Um, yes, that would be nice, I suppose."

Sherlock was hesitant as he slowly opened the bathroom door. Even though he couldn't see anything but Molly's one bare knee sticking out from the bubbling water, just the knowledge that she was naked under there made his cock twitch. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was doing all this for Molly or for his own selfish reasons. He handed her the teacup and hastily retreated back into the living room so as to avoid having a full-blown erection.

A short time later he heard Molly exit the bathroom and, moments after that, the buzzer ring to signal the delivery of the food.

Over dinner, the conversation was light. Molly asked about his spleen experiments, about the renovation schedule for 221B, and about how he liked living with John and an infant until the renovations were completed. It was all nice, friendly, and companionable, she thought.

"Sherlock, thank you for all this. Tonight. But you really needn't try so hard. I so forgive you. Completely. I didn't have all of the context. It's alright. I'll be alright."

"That's what you think this is about? Getting you to forgive me?"

"Well, yes, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. You should know by now that I am a selfish creature and that everything I do has an ulterior motive."

A crease appeared on Molly forehead, a measure of her confusion. "And what is your ulterior motive here?"

"Well, apparently I'm doing a horrible job of it if you don't realize I'm trying to seduce you, Dr. Hooper."


	5. Chapter 5

For Sherlock, sex had always been, in the bluntest terms, a "transactional" arrangement. Sometimes it was exclusively a cash transaction, as he had, from rare time to time resorted to prostitutes to obtain the small release of which he sometimes felt the need. But even on the very rare occasions when money did not lay at the heart of the transaction, he still felt the physical act of sex had no more intrinsic meaning than any other transaction: two people had needs that the other could reasonably meet. Only one time had he felt the transaction had been unfair to one side: when he used the promise of sexual intimacy to gain entrance to a private office for a case. But, all in all, Sherlock had been more than satisfied with the limited and unentangled nature of these exchanges. They were compact and avoided messiness.

He realized that Molly would be messy, very messy.

And he didn't give a damn.

He saw the look of shock and confusion on her face as he declared his intentions. All his previous self-remonstratives to avoid messy entanglements flew away into the ether. He leaped from the chair and grabbed Molly's face in his hands and began to kiss her furiously. To his complete relief, she kissed him back. They simply couldn't seem to consume enough of each other.

Sherlock reached behind Molly with his arms. She was so tiny, he thought. So delicate. He positioned his hands on her lower back and lifted her up. She hooked her now-freed legs around Sherlock's torso, never breaking their lips' connection for long. He started moving both their bodies, now totally in his control, toward her bedroom.

Once he felt his knees hit the edge of her bedframe, he laid her down gently on the bed and stood over her, panting, staring. She panted too. She hesitated for a second but then placed her hands on the bottom hem of her night shirt. After another unsteady second, she lifted the shirt completely off herself and threw it into the corner of the room.

Sherlock watched, unable to speak, aware of both the straining erection in his trousers and the rise and fall of Molly's breasts. But he just stood there, staring, unable to move just then. Molly became a little self-conscious at Sherlock's sudden stillness, remembering his curt comments once about her small breast size. And, for a horrifying second, she compared herself with the dead-ringer for the body of "The Woman" in the morgue—the one Sherlock recognized in her nudity. Molly imagined how flat she seemed compared to that specimen of female beauty. She felt on the verge of tears.

"Sherlock?" she pleaded for him to say something.

"Shhhh," he indicated for her to be quiet. "I want to commit every inch of your body to permanent memory." Molly felt her already-wet center throb at Sherlock's words. He stared for a few more seconds and then, being unable to resist his own urges any more, he bent over and took one of her breasts in his hand and, to the other, he started ministering with his mouth, alternately licking and gently taking her nipple between his teeth. He almost came just listening to the incredibly arousing sounds Molly made. He switched hand and mouth positions to attend equally to the other breast. He could feel Molly begin to rub her thighs together and that brought his attention to her sleep pants, which, he thought, needed to come off this second. He stood up again and immediately set his hands on her waistband. As he began to pull the pants downward, Molly lifted her hips to help him. In an instant, the pants were off and settled next to the discarded sleep shirt. And finally she was naked before him and, once again, he had to exercise extraordinary self-control to not come in his pants right there. For Sherlock Holmes had never been so overwhelmingly, dangerously turned on.

He needed to be closer to her center. He knelt down and was immediately overtaken by the combination of the scent and the glistening wetness that seemed to soak the whole area. This, THIS was for HIM, he thought, with just a hint of pride. He leaned further down, intending to find out what noises Molly Hooper could make with his tongue tracing along her clitoris and how they compared to the noises she made when her nipples had been in Sherlock's care seconds ago.

"Sherlock?" Molly said questioningly, sitting up a bit. At her tone, Sherlock straightened up and felt alarmed. Had he presumed too much? Was this going too far too fast? But, she continued: "Are you going to take off your clothes?"

Mine? He had completely forgotten about himself and his own body, so transfixed was he by Molly's. "Oh, yes, I suppose that would be a good idea." They both let out a little laugh. She sat up and he bent down to meet her half way. She lifted the blue scrubs shirt and the white undershirt off together and threw them across the room. Her hands brushed over his chest muscles. She moved her hands slowly down his stomach, inching toward his waistband.

Think of Queen and country, Queen and country, Sherlock repeated inside his own mind, knowing the danger of prematurely ending his participation in the night's events if he didn't regain control. He didn't want to disappoint Molly, not tonight. He looked down and saw that Molly had freed him from the scrub bottoms, so he stepped out of them, picked them up, and hurled them across the room. He heard a crash. Damn it, he thought, I broke a lamp.

He was about to issue an apology when Molly yelled "I don't give a shit about the lamp, Sherlock." In a move that surprised him completely, she then leaned in and proceeded to lick the pre-cum off the tip of Sherlock's cock. At this, he made a noise that downright alarmed her. "Are you alright?"

He bent over slightly to get his penis a bit farther from Molly's mouth. If his penis had had the ability to do so, Sherlock is sure it would have stabbed him in the heart for such a cruel betrayal. "Umm, Molly, it's not that I wouldn't like that, um, very, very much, it's just that I have some plans for what I want to accomplish this evening and, if you continue to do THAT, I might finish the race before the starter pistol even goes off."

"Oh, oh, I see. I wouldn't care, Sherlock."

"Perhaps. But I do care, you see. So, if you please: hands and mouth away from the danger zone for the time being." She laughed and he smiled. "Now, I was in the middle of a very important experiment when you interrupted."

"An experiment?"

"Yes, to see how loud I can make you come and how many times I can make you come with my mouth and fingers. And then, for purposes of comparative analysis, I'm going to fuck you with my cock." At this, Molly made a wonderful moan that Sherlock immediately committed to memory. "I must warn you that while my fingers and mouth are fully in my control for the first experiments, I cannot vouch for how long the tools required for the second experiments will hold up. We may have to consider additional experiments to gain the full measure of . . . "

"For God's sake, Sherlock, do shut up," Molly said, pulling him down toward her. And Sherlock complied, more than happily.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly stirred slowly, but was startled completely awake by the site of Sherlock Holmes turned toward her, staring at her, intently.

"Jesus, Sherlock, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"No, I'm not, in point of fact."

"What's wrong? Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I'm not quite sure why I'm doing it myself. I just find myself enjoying it for some inexplicable reason. Probably some post-coital chemical reaction in my brain."

"Well, I probably look like a fright. What time is it?"

"8:37."

Upon receiving this knowledge, she bolted up in bed. "Oh, God, I'm late for work."

"Call in sick," Sherlock suggested.

"I can't. I've got reams of paperwork from yesterday's autopsies." She started to place one foot out of bed when Sherlock pulled her back.

"You can be a little later, surely. You are in charge, after all." He then proceeded to kiss her neck and enfold her body in his arms.

After a few seconds of enjoying this activity quite a lot, Molly pushed Sherlock away. "Sherlock, I really should get ready to go. Plus, you have to see Euros today."

Sherlock nodded, remembering his obligation. "Yes, yes, but not quite yet." He started the kissing and touching again.

"Sherlock! Really, after last night, I can't believe you have anything left in your tank. I can barely move."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I think you know well it's a very, very good thing." Sherlock smiled at that.

"Well, then, can there ever be too much of a good thing?" He started his ministrations once again. This time, Molly couldn't quite muster the will to stop him. She felt his erection and lost all notion of what she should be doing at this moment and surrendered to Sherlock instead. As he readied himself to enter her, a loud knock sounded at the front door.

"Who the hell could that be?" Molly wondered aloud.

"Ignore it," Sherlock implored through gritted teeth, not keen on the interruption now that he had worn Molly's resistance down.

"Molly! Molly? Are you home?" John Watson's voice bellowed from outside the flat.

"It's John," Molly said unnecessarily to Sherlock.

"Shhhhhhh, ignore him; he'll go away."

The knocking continued. "Molly? If you're in there, I need your help."

"Something could be wrong with Rosie, Sherlock. I have to see what he needs."

Sherlock sighed but removed himself from his position on top of her and laid back on her bed while Molly got up, put on a robe, and headed for the front door.

Upon opening the door, John hurried inside and started speaking urgently, "It's Sherlock. He never came back to the house last night and he hasn't answered any of my texts. I'm afraid he's using drugs again. We need to find him. Please, will you help me, Molly?"

"Um, I'm sure Sherlock's fine. Maybe he's just working on a case and lost track of time."

"No, I'd know if he were working on a new case. I'll be honest with you, Molly: I thought this might happen. Damn it, I should have been more attentive, I . . . "

John stopped mid-sentence as he witnessed his friend walking out of Molly's bedroom wrapped only in a sheet. John stared at him in silence for a second and then shifted his eyes back and forth between Sherlock and Molly, taking in what the scene obviously meant.

"Oh, um, oh, ah . . . " John stuttered. Sherlock just stared back at John, no embarrassment at all, but Molly, for her part, couldn't meet John's eyes for her own apparent embarrassment. John continued: "well, um, ok then, I guess I'll just be going, then." He turned awkwardly toward the door.

"Um, John?" Molly stopped him from leaving.

"Uh, yes?"

"Could you not say anything to anyone about this?" Molly waved her hands between herself and Sherlock to emphasize just what she meant by "this."

"Oh, no, yes, of course. No problem there." He turned to Sherlock and then back to Molly. "So, I'll see you later, I suppose." He then turned finally to leave, to his own and Molly's great relief.

Sherlock, on the other hand, looked slightly taken aback by the last exchange. "What was that?" he inquired of Molly.

"What was what?"

"Why did you ask John not to tell anyone about this?" He mimicked her earlier hand gesture to indicate the precise meaning of "this."

"Oh, I don't know. I just want to keep this private for a while, not have everyone make a big production out of it. Let's just keep this to ourselves for a while, ok?"

Sherlock didn't understand her reasoning and felt strangely uneasy about the request, even though he couldn't quite pinpoint what about the request bothered him so much. But he did his best to put the uneasiness out of his mind.

"So," he said with one raised eyebrow, "shall we continue what we were doing before the interruption?"

Molly smiled but resisted his charms this time. "Actually, I really, really need to get ready to go to St. Bart's. I definitely need to take a shower first, though." Sherlock seemed almost to pout. "But, um, you could perhaps join me if you'd like." Yes, he thought, I would very much like.

* * *

Sherlock rode with Molly in a cab to St. Bart's and then departed to make his way to the helicopter that would take him to Sherrinford. Molly hadn't departed the cab for two minutes before he found the need to text her.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _I wonder what Euros saw._

 **Molly Hooper:** _What do you mean?_

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _How she knew. About us._

 **Molly Hooper:** _Oh, that. I might be able to deduct that one._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _Explain._

 **Molly Hooper:** _Surveillance videos of my flat._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _?_

 **Molly Hooper** : _Think, Sherlock._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _I haven't used your flat as a bolthole in quite a while. I don't think the videos go that far back. She couldn't have seen us interacting there to pick up whatever subtle clues of mutual attraction and intellectual compatibility we've been throwing off. She must have observed us in some other environment._

 **Molly Hooper:** _Oh sweet Jesus. Really, do I have to spell it out, Sherlock?_

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _?_

 **Molly Hooper:** _There were cameras in my bedroom._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _But I've never been in your bedroom with you before last night_.

 **Molly Hooper:** _You can be surprisingly daft sometimes for the world's most brilliant detective._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _I don't follow._

 **Molly Hooper:** _For fuck's sake Sherlock, I was probably masturbating and saying your name._

Molly waited what seemed like ages for Sherlock to respond.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _I'll need to see a reenactment of this ASAP.  
_


	7. Chapter 7

Between his research into the chemistry of the brain and his extensive literary travels along side his practical everyday observations of the behaviors of the curious creature that makes up the _homo sapiens_ species, he knew what was happening to him: he was fucking falling in love.

And he hated it. He hated how it distracted him so easily from the pursuits to which he would once have been able to devote all his intellectual efforts. He hated how his needs and wants now subordinated themselves to hers. He hated being a slave now to the very bodily desires to which he had previously been the master. He hated the unnamed anxiety he felt in his chest when he thought of her. He hated everything about the experience. He hated everything, that is, except what he loved about it.

He loved when they would be away from one another for hours and the feeling he would get upon first spotting her. He loved the smile she would return when she saw him. He loved sharing her bed—not just the sex itself—but the mere fact of her being there in the damn bed and him being able to reach across and touch her or smell her strawberry-scented hair any time he wished. And he loved being inside her.

For someone like Sherlock, who had closed himself off so effectively to many of the emotional drives so common to common humans, only to have one carefully constructed wall gradually pulled down around him by John Watson and now his remaining wall blown apart in an instance by Molly Hooper, the experience was unsteadying and disorienting.

He surprised himself in the early weeks of his relationship with her by his degree of neediness. More so by his own insecurity. Nagging at him throughout their brief time together was a gnawing speckle of doubt, a shadow seen out of the corner of his eye that disappeared every time he tried to look directly at it. His couldn't name it, but he knew it was there nonetheless and, every time it inched into his peripheral mental vision, he felt as though someone had placed a heavy weight upon his chest.

But, when it came to these unnameable spectral doubts and concerns, Sherlock was a fast learner, as he had learned to do what countless other men and women have done with such misgivings since time out of mind: he simply ignored them and pretended they didn't exist.

* * *

"A dinner party? Really?" John Watson said, looking shocked, while standing inside the just-finished new version of Sherlock's apartment, to which exacting pains were made to look precisely like the old version.

"Yes, to celebrate the completion of renovations to 221B," said Sherlock, not paying any attention to John's astonishment. "Just the usual suspects, as it were: you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, perhaps. Well, maybe not Mycroft."

"And Molly?"

"Oh, well, yes, of course Molly will be there."

"To celebrate the renovation of 221B? Not something else?"

"Yes, do keep up, John. I know being a single father taxes your more minimal brain power, but our work together is going to be very exhausting if I have to repeat everything."

John shrugged the common Sherlockian insult aside. "OK then," John said dubiously, with a shake of his head.

"Your tone belies the literal meaning of your words," Sherlock challenged, ever the detective.

"Well, I dunno, it's just that I thought we might be celebrating something else entirely." To this, Sherlock appeared confused. "Sherlock, really? You, Molly. What's it been, a month? Or are you two going by the first trimester rule?"

"The first trimester rule?"

"A lot of couples don't like to announce pregnancies until the second trimester because of the higher risk of miscarriage in the first trimester."

"Molly's pregnant?" Sherlock sounded apoplectic and seemed on the verge of fainting.

"No, no, oh God no," said John, trying to calm his friend down from the heart attack he appeared on the verge of having. "No, it's just a metaphor, Sherlock. I thought maybe you didn't want to tell people about you two until you were sure the relationship will keep for a while. Do you understand? I assumed that's why you didn't want anyone to know about you two yet."

"It wasn't me that wanted secrecy; it was . . . Molly," he said, a little distractedly. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock swore he could see a shadow, now grown larger in his peripheral mind's eye than before.

* * *

 ** _**A short chapter to bridge to the dinner party chapter. If you're liking this story, a review would be oh so appreciated. Thanks in particular to a British reader, who helped this American author on translation issues.  
_**


	8. Chapter 8

Truth be told, Sherlock _had_ planned to use the dinner party—ostensibly for the occasion of the completion of the renovations—as a sort of "coming out" event for himself and Molly. He assumed it would not take the world's foremost detective to deduct the alteration in their relationship. Merely by observing the two of them together he was sure others could figure it out. Surely even a pedestrian detective such as Lestrade would be able to look upon their changed demeanors toward one another and see the new arrangement. And Mrs. Hudson, while able to perfect the personality of a ditsy old landlady, actually possessed rather keen perceptions when it came to interpersonal relationships. So, they both would doubtless arrive upon the truth of the new coupling and Sherlock would have done nothing to violate Molly's express wishes to remain secretive about it.

With this seemingly full-proof plan in mind, Sherlock was all smiles when Lestrade and John arrived together with John's daughter, followed a few minutes later by Mrs. Hudson and Molly. When he went to relieve Molly of her coat, he bent down to kiss her cheek, but she backed off from it and avoided his eye contact.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's good to see you. The place looks . . . well, it looks exactly the same as I last saw it," she said.

Sherlock's smile faded into a frown. "Actually, Dr. Hooper, your powers of observation have failed you. If you look upon the mantlepiece, you'll notice that the woodwork is a whole shade darker than the previous stain."

John cut in. "Yes, he argued with the contractor for two days about it. Eventually, the contractor threatened to quit unless Sherlock shut the hell up. It nearly came to blows."

"Yes, well, I suppose I'll get used to the new stain color in only a few years. I'm nothing if not adaptable," Sherlock said, without any hint of irony.

Everyone laughed at the classic Sherlock moment and, although he didn't precisely know what was so funny about it, Sherlock nonetheless enjoyed Molly's laughter and smile enough to let it go and not press the issue.

Lestrade walked over to Molly. "You're looking particularly wonderful tonight, Molly," the Scotland Yard detective offered.

"Thank you Greg," Molly said in return. Sherlock had always known that Greg Lestrade had a bit of a "thing" for Molly, but never gave it much thought or let it bother him at all because he didn't think Greg would ever act upon it, since he generally disliked mixing his private life with his professional duties. So Sherlock didn't let his friend's innocent ogling of his girlfriend bother him— _much_. Besides, she _was_ looking particularly wonderful tonight, so he shouldn't fault Lestrade for noticing.

Throughout the evening, Sherlock kept trying to get into a one-on-one conversation with Molly while they waited for dinner to finish cooking, but she always managed to avoid him or have a third person within their conversational group. Maybe it was Sherlock's imagination, but he could have sworn that she was doing it on purpose.

At one point, when Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock stood talking together, Molly excused herself to use the bathroom. Sherlock seized the opportunity. "Oh, um, Molly—the lever to, um, flush the toilet is acting up, let me show you how to use it."

John overheard his friend. "I just used it a couple of minutes ago. It seemed fine to me."

Sherlock shot an exasperated look at him. "It's intermittent, John." John turned away and shrugged, confused.

Sherlock led the way down the hall in front of Molly, stopped in front of the door to let her pass, followed her in, and closed the door behind them.

"You should get the contractor back if it's already malfu . . . " Molly began but was immediately interrupted by Sherlock's lips pressed to hers. After kissing back a few times, she let out a quiet laugh and said, "Sherlock? What are you doing? You'll smudge my lipstick." She didn't realize that that had been Sherlock's plan to make it easier for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to "out them." Instead, she unknowingly undermined him by turning to the mirror and making sure her lipstick was alright. She turned back to him. "There's nothing really wrong with the toilet, is there?"

"Not a thing." He leaned in for another kiss, but she placed a blocking hand on his chest.

"Sherlock, I really do have to pee. Go." She pointed for him to get out.

* * *

Internally, Sherlock was starting to feel a little inexplicably grumbly. He hated when people didn't behave the way they were supposed to behave in his carefully-constructed scenarios. Nevertheless, he put on a cheerful front as the small group of friends started to sit down to dinner.

He made what, for him, was an elaborate show of pulling out the chair next to him for Molly, but she dodged around the other side of the table quickly and, instead, Mrs. Hudson sat down on the chair Sherlock had held out.

"Oh, thank you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling up at Sherlock, who smiled through gritted teeth. Then he spied Greg Lestrade holding a chair out for Molly opposite him and, while he cautioned himself against petty and ridiculous jealousy, which was, after all the province of common minds, he was sure that Lestrade had taken the opportunity of offering the seat to gaze upon Molly's ass for an extended moment.

For what seemed an eternity, he sat listening to Mrs. Hudson prattling on about how hard it had been for the contractors to get the exact wallpaper for the flat. She explained to the group that they ended up having it custom made by a firm that specialized in making historically-accurate wallpapers for BBC productions. "The same people worked on 'Downton Abbey,' isn't that exciting? I did love that show, though it was frustrating to wait so long between seasons." Sherlock had a harder time than usual listening to the inane conversation. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson rarely required a response so he could instead listen to Molly's conversations with, alternatively, John and Lestrade.

At a lull in the group conversation late in the meal, Sherlock overheard Lestrade once again complementing Molly's appearance this night. "Molly, I have to say, I don't think I've ever seen you looking quite so lovely." Molly blushed.

Mrs. Hudson added, "Yes, dear, you're practically glowing. Are you using a new skin conditioner or something?"

A new skin conditioner, really? Sherlock thought angrily. Come on, you can do better than that.

"No, I don't think I've been using any different skin products," Molly offered, still blushing.

"Glowing, yes," Lestrade agreed. "I was actually think the word 'radiant' myself a second ago."

Sherlock, now thoroughly annoyed, drank down the entire glass of wine in front of him in one gulp. "So, Detective Lestrade, to what do you think we owe Dr. Hooper's improvement in appearance this evening? Sharpen your deductive skills and see what you can deduce about it."

Lestrade laughed a bit awkwardly. "What do you mean, Sherlock? Deduce what?" Both John and Molly shot Sherlock a warning look.

"Well, not one but two people have commented on a certain all-around change in Molly's appearance tonight. One could dismiss one or two comments, particularly from a person of the opposite sex, as much puffing or flirting or simple politeness, but three or more comments noting the same indescribable improvement—one from a person wholly uninterested in the object sexually—suggests something really is different. There are two questions that immediately present themselves in such a situation where someone's appearance seems markedly different. Anyone want to guess what those two questions are?"

John tried to change the direction of the dangerously veering conversation. "Molly has always been pretty."

"Yes, John, she always has." At this, Sherlock clears his throat. "But wouldn't you concede that Molly, being a practical and serious person generally, has a beauty that flies under the radar of most men?"

"I don't know about that, I've always thought Molly a knock-out myself," Lestrade offered, causing Molly's somewhat fading blush to come roaring back.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "So are you saying that your compliments as to her particular appearance here tonight were mere puffery?"

"No, no, I'm meant it," Lestrade said defensively. To Molly, he said, "I think you look especially beautiful tonight. Can't quite pin it down."

"And that is precisely the issue at present. So, what is the first question we must ask ourselves?"

Everyone fidgeted awkwardly except for little Rosie, who seemed to be having the time of her life banging her little rattle on her baby tray.

Sherlock continued, despite the look of daggers in Molly's eyes. "Come now, Mrs. Hudson already hinted at the first question." Everyone unconsciously looked toward Mrs. Hudson, who just shrugged, not knowing what she had said that constituted a deduction of any kind.

"Do keep up, people. She asked if our dear Dr. Hooper had some recent change in her skin care regime. The first question, then, is: what exactly we're all seeing when we say that Dr. Hooper's appearance is glowing or radiant, the two words tossed about tonight. If we are to take Dr. Hooper at her word, no new skin treatment can be credited with providing her this 'glow,' as it were. And, although her dress is quite lovely, it's hardly a decisive break from the colors and styles we are all accustomed to seeing on Dr. Hooper. What about her hair style, someone might ask? Well, it's one of three she regularly alternates between. I dare say we've all seen this style on her numerous times. So what, then, explains the marked difference in our Molly tonight?"

"Maybe I was just in a good mood, before you started on this nonsense," Molly said, now glowering at Sherlock.

But he ignored these warning signs. "Ah, yes, the idea that one's internal mental state can project itself into exterior bodily signs. But, certainly, we've all seen you in a good mood before. This goes beyond simply a 'good mood.'"

Mrs. Hudson gleefully piped in here. "Oh dear, have you a new boyfriend? I know I feel ten years younger when I have a new man in my life. And we women are said to have a glow about us when we are 'getting some,' you know."

"Oh Lord," said John.

"No, no, no, our Mrs. Hudson may have stumbled on to something here."

"Do you dear? Do you have a new boyfriend?" Mrs. Hudson pressed.

Before Molly could say anything, Sherlock continued. "Yes, but if she had a boyfriend, certainly she'd be with him now—here. She'd want to introduce this new man to her best friends, surely. And why wouldn't she just come out with it, instead of having us have to tease it out of her? This would be the second question: why hide this new man in her life?"

"Maybe she's embarrassed by him," Lestrade said distractedly, almost unaware that it slipped out of his mouth, and then immediately tried to retract his statement. "I didn't mean that, Molly. I'm sure you're not embarrassed by him; it just slipped out. You know how he can make your brain trip over itself."

"Yes, I know well," Molly said, looking very angrily toward Sherlock.

"Perhaps our Detective Lestrade has hit the proverbial nail on the head. Are you indeed ashamed of your new lover, Dr. Hooper?"

"Right now, absolutely." Both Sherlock and Molly stared intently at each other for a long, awkward moment, red-faced.

But Sherlock achieved what he had set out to achieve. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were left in no doubt as to the identity of Molly Hooper's new boyfriend. Yes, Sherlock had gotten what he wanted: in the worst possible way.

* * *

 _ ****Thank you all for the encouragement. The course of true love never did run smooth. Hopefully, Sherlock didn't fuck things up too much. We'll see. Reviews are lovely and keep the muses close by.**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_"It's not the fall that kills you; it's the landing."_**

After what seemed like an eternity, Molly threw her napkin on the table and got up hurriedly to leave. Sherlock raced over to stop her at the door, but she merely placed her hands roughly on his chest and pushed him away. "Fuck you, Sherlock."

"Molly?" Sherlock pleaded as she grabbed her coat and headed out the door without looking back. Sherlock spun around, not even seeing his guests, in a panic now. Finally noticing his guests all getting up, he spun back around toward the door and started toward it when John and Lestrade each grabbed a hold of one of Sherlock's arms, lifted him, and sat him down roughly in his chair. "What? What are you doing? Let me go," he protested.

"No, mate. You're not going anywhere right now," John insisted. "If you go right now, the way your head is at this moment, you'll only make it worse."

"John's right," Lestrade agreed. "Nothing you will say in your present state will improve the situation."

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson asked, not expecting any response, just a question she's asked hundreds of times before.

"You've really cocked this one up, haven't you?" John said, pacing in front of Sherlock and just shaking his head in disgust.

"That's why I want to go after her, to apologize," Sherlock explained. "To explain."

"Well, why don't you start by explaining to us why you just put on that monumental display of jackassery and we'll decide if you're ready to talk to Molly or not," John proposed. Sherlock crossed his arms and said nothing, looking like he was going to start sulking. "Mrs. Hudson, Greg, could you leave us to have a chat," John asked.

Mrs. Hudson complied and started to leave, but Lestrade stood staring angrily down at Sherlock and said "Are you sure a chat's in order? I think he might need a punch in the goddamn nose. Molly didn't deserve that."

John promised Lestrade that "if a punch in the nose proves to be in order, I'll be happy to provide one myself." Satisfied with that, Lestrade departed the flat with Mrs. Hudson, leaving John and Sherlock sitting across from one another and an oblivious Rosie still in her child's dining chair.

"So," John continued. "What the fuck was that?" Sherlock gave no answer, just sitting there brooding. "So what exactly were you going to say when you caught up to Molly, then?" Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"I was just going to say 'I'm sorry.'"

"Sorry about what, exactly, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean? Sorry about how the dinner party went, how things got out of hand."

"'Things.' Hmmmm. That's how you were going to put it, 'things got out of hand'? I think I absolutely should punch you in the face if that's what you were going to say."

"What? Why?"

"Seriously, Sherlock? The first thing you need to do is acknowledge that you behaved like a complete cock."

"Isn't that implicit in the apology?"

"Sherlock! For God's sake. You are an exasperating twerp. She loves you. God knows why, but she loves you and you humiliated her and this time it wasn't because you had to to save her life, but because of some sick reason of your own."

"Well, all this would have been avoided had she not insisted on keeping our relationship a secret."

"And there it is."

"There what is?"

"This is all about your hurt feelings. You expected her to take out an advertisement in _The Times of London_ announcing that she was shagging the great Sherlock Holmes and it hurt your ego that she didn't, that she didn't act like a teenage girl president of the Sherlock Holmes fanclub. Well, newsflash Sherlock—that's not Molly. You know how shy she is. You know she is insecure. And, most of all, you know the price people pay when others know that they love Sherlock Holmes and that you love them back. Can you really blame her for wanting to keep the relationship on the down-low?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the floor. Then he covered his eyes with his hands. "Oh Lord, John. I've really cocked this one up."

"That's what I've been saying, mate."

"John, please help me. How do I make this better?"

"Be honest with her Sherlock. Painfully, brutally honest. And then work on not being such an obnoxious cock."

* * *

Molly searched her kitchen cabinets furiously until she found what she was looking for: the bottle of small batch bourbon one of her friends had brought back from America for her two years ago. She had stashed it away, waiting for some kind of special occasion to open it. The occasion never came and now was as good a moment as any, she thought.

Tonight confirmed Molly's worst fears about being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes: sooner or later Sherlock would grow bored of her and start playing games to amuse himself, eventually making the relationship so toxic that she would have no choice but to be the one to end things, no matter how much she knew she would always be madly in love with him. What did her friend Ceili call it? Ah, yes, "the reverse dump," when a man consciously or unconsciously wants to end a relationship but either hasn't the courage or doesn't want to be the bad guy so he makes it too unbearable for the woman, thus causing her to end things for him.

Well, she thought, I'm not going to play the game. I'm going to make him say it, not make it easy for him. She poured herself another bourbon and then another. And then came the knock. She knew it was going to come, yet her heart lurched into her stomach at the thought that opening that door might be the beginning of the end of an extraordinary month of loving and being loved by Sherlock Holmes.

She stood up as straight as she could and went to open the door for him. She opened the door, barely looked at him, and just went back to her seat on the sofa, all without uttering a word. He took a cue from her silence and walked in and sat opposite her without saying anything for a long time.

Soon he could stand it no more. "So, not the best dinner party ever." Molly let out a little laugh at that understatement, but one without any mirth behind it. He noticed the whiskey bottle on the coffee table and Molly's glass. "OK, first I need to apologize."

"No, no, you don't, Sherlock." Sherlock was confused by Molly's reaction. Just how much had she had to drink, he wondered. "You don't need to apologize and you don't need to explain."

"I don't?" Sherlock sensed a trap here.

"Nope, you just have to tell me what you want."

"What I want?"

"Yes and I need you to be honest, really honest, Sherlock. I'm stronger than you give me credit for. It'll hurt, yes, but I'll live. I don't want to play games anymore."

"I'm afraid I'm a little lost here. What exactly will hurt?"

"Just tell me the truth, Sherlock, do you want to end this now?"

"End what?" Molly wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse.

"This, Sherlock," she said, waving her hand between them.

Sherlock choked up. "No, Molly, that is the opposite of what I want. If that is what you want, don't pawn the desire off on me."

"I don't want it, but I know you do. That's what tonight clearly demonstrated."

Sherlock was incredulous. "Were we together in the same room tonight? Those weren't the actions of a man looking to make a hasty retreat from a relationship."

"They weren't?"

"Good God no, they were the actions of man wracked with petty jealously and crippling insecurity."

Now was Molly's turn to be incredulous. "Jealous? Of what? Of whom?"

"Of Greg Lestrade."

"Greg Lestrade?" Molly burst into a guffaw. "Are you mad?"

"To put it plainly, yes I am mad. I thought I could take his constant ogling of you and his endless flirtations, but there's only so much I could stomach."

"You're joking. Greg does not ogle me or flirt with me, he's just being kind."

"You're blind, my dear. If you don't believe me, ask John Watson. He'll tell you that he's witnessed it."

"No."

"Yes."

"Well, it hardly matters," she assured him. "Greg has never so much as invited me for coffee. He's always been very professional."

"I know that; it's just that watching him flirt with you all night and not being to shut him down by saying 'hey, stop staring at my girlfriend's ass' made me a wee bit testy."

She was stunned at the direction the conversation had taken. She would have never imagined Sherlock as capable of being jealous of her.

He continued, "It wasn't just that. It was 'the first trimester rule.'"

Now thoroughly confused, Molly said, "Um, what's this now?"

"John said you didn't want to tell anyone about us because you weren't sure we would last past three months."

"Well, I wouldn't have put it like that, exactly, but, yes, I suppose that's true."

Sherlock turned away, upset, talking to himself. "And it's not the falling that kills you; it's the landing."

Molly held an arm out to spin his back around to face her. "What was that?"

Sherlock said, sadly, "Just something I remember from one of my narcotic-induced deliriums."

"Sherlock, it wasn't that I wanted it to end, I just know you. I know how easily you get bored. I know how you need the excitement of the game. How long would you be excited by the mundane life of being a pathologist's boyfriend?"

"Mundane?" He said the word with obvious scorn.

"Yes, be honest, Sherlock. If," she hesitated before continuing, uncomfortable, "if 'The Woman' were to come back somehow to England, how could I possibly compete with that? I mean, she'd bring with her a life of intrigue and danger, not to mention almost perfect bodily dimensions. I don't doubt that your feelings for me are sincere right now, but it's not fair to imagine you someone you're not. I wanted desperately for what we have to last, but I couldn't take it if, when it's all over, everyone around me walked on eggshells and said 'oh, that's a pity it didn't last, Molly,' all the while thinking how could it have lasted."

"And that was your thinking when you asked John to keep our relationship a secret?"

"Yes, it was."

"Well, apparently, you're very stupid, Molly Hooper."

"Excuse me?"

"Very, very stupid. Grow bored of you? I should have grown bored of Irene Adler within a week. What had we to discuss: the latest in sexual bondage? how her latest client is enjoying his or her whipping? Come now. Together at night, you and I never lack for conversation—ever. I can talk to you about criminal psychology, the human body, about all our mutual acquaintances. I bet Irene Adler can't even name more than ten elements on the periodic table. You can name all 118."

"Usually that's not a turn-on for most men, Sherlock."

"I'm not most men, Molly Hooper. And, to be quite candid, if I had wanted to fuck Irene Adler or if I wanted to fuck her this very day, I could arrange for that with a text. Furthermore, if it could somehow be done, I wouldn't even put your brain in her body because your body is part of who you are and I've grown to love it, adore it, worship it even. So please never insult me again by saying I could be made happy either intellectually or sexually by anyone but you. The very idea is ludicrous and you should apologize to me at once."

Molly was taken aback by Sherlock's forcefulness. "Wait a minute, you came here to apologize to me and now you're asking me to apologize to you? How the hell did this happen?"

"I'm not quite sure, but the only way to properly gain my forgiveness is to lead me to your bedroom and have your way with me. Repeatedly."

Molly laughed. "How do you always do this to me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't quite know myself, but I hope I never lose the ability."


	10. Chapter 10

Molly had had no illusions when she started dating Sherlock Holmes. She knew he was a odd creature in so many ways, particular in his personal habits, off-kilter in his interpersonal communications, and downright childlike in his placement of himself at the center of everyone else's universe. But he _was_ trying. Molly gave him credit for that.

Nevertheless, there were aggravating moments. There would always be these moments with Sherlock—like the time he sweetly suggested them moving in together into 221B.

"Sherlock, that is so lovely that you'd want to . . . and so soon," she added.

"But?" Sherlock could read the word on the tip of her tongue.

"Well, how should I put this? When you're deep into a complex case, you can get a little, um, what's the word?"

"Determined? Focused? Driven?"

"Um, no I was thinking a bit bonkers, what with your tendency to pace, to go into extended trances, and to wield dangerous weapons."

"Bonkers?" Sherlock repeated.

"So, I thought it might be best to always have separate living spaces available so that, when you're immersed in a challenging case, you can stay there and, when you are more, um, normal, you can sleep here."

"Bonkers?" Sherlock was clearly not letting go of her word choice.

"And, if I'm to be completely honest and don't you dare tell Mrs. Hudson this, but I don't really like your flat."

Sherlock accepted her wisdom on this matter and found, in time, that he agreed that their relationship would be stronger without 24-7 Sherlock in her space. Even he understood that he could be a pill.

Another challenge turned out to be a common one for all new couples: the inevitable meet the family dinner. Molly had never met his parents and, like everyone else before they met them, assumed that they would be very odd themselves to have produced such children as Mycroft, Sherlock, and Euros.

Despite her fear and anxiety, she was pleasantly surprised at how utterly normal they seemed. John had told her as much, but, with something like this, only personal observation would do. However, they were indeed lovely, normal people. In fact, it was their normality, not their eccentricities, that made their first dinner together uncomfortable. From the get-go, only Mrs. Holmes seemed unfazed to see Sherlock with a girlfriend, even though he had apparently never brought one home let alone mentioned the existence of one.

"I'm so glad someone finally understands my Sherlock. All the girls used to adore him when he was a boy, you know, but he was always so special and dedicated to his studies and then to his work. So many people would adore him if they just knew him properly," his mother said, with both Mycroft and Mr. Holmes shooting a look at one another that belied Mrs. Holmes's sentimentality toward her son.

While Mrs. Holmes evinced the adoring mother who could see no wrong in her younger son, both Mr. Holmes and Mycroft talked to Molly as if she were an escapee from a mental institution, completely incapable of seeing how anyone sane could actually love, and with more difficulty, date Sherlock Holmes. Molly wouldn't have been surprised had Mr. Holmes asked her to blink twice if she was being held by Sherlock against her will.

At one point in the evening Mycroft said, "Dr. Hooper, I have a friend with whom I went to Uni. He's a renowned neuropsychologist and he's studying the brains of women attracted to sociopaths and psychopaths. I'm sure you'd be a welcome addition to his test subjects."

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes both yelled "Mycroft!" Sherlock just scowled at his older brother.

"Very funny, Mycroft," Molly had responded, believing Mycroft was just having a laugh at Sherlock's expense. However, at the end of the evening, he actually handed Molly a business card of the Cambridge neuropsychologist. So this is what I'm in for dating Sherlock, she wondered, an endless series of people questioning my sanity.

Although the evening went far better overall than she had anticipated, she nonetheless decided to put off Sherlock meeting her own family—just for now at least, she told herself.

So, yes, dating Sherlock had had its challenges, but nothing compared to when he took on "The Case of the Lone Pygmy Goat." That one almost sent her straight into the mental institution that so many thought she should have been into already.

* * *

Sherlock had been away investigating some suspicious deaths in the Yorkshire Dales. He hated going out of London for cases and avoided doing so as often as he could. Hell, he often investigated and closed cases without ever stepping foot outside 221B. But sometimes he had to see the evidence in person. He was in such a foul mood the night before he had to leave that Molly threatened to kick him out of her flat if he didn't stop being so short-tempered with her. The threat worked and he behaved well the rest of the evening.

In the morning, after he had left to catch the train and she had gone to work, he texted her.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _I'm sorry I was such a prat last night. It's just that I don't know how long I'll have to stay in the goddamn countryside and it's the longest I've been away from you. Pathetic aren't I?_

 **Molly Hooper:** _No, not pathetic. Sweet. But you could have just said that instead of acting out. Communication, Sherlock. You need to work on that._

Poor communication was a constant theme in their disagreements.

Three days later, Sherlock texted her to let her know he'd be arriving back in London that morning and that he'd see her at her flat tonight. With that information, she hurried home in quite a good mood, for she found that, like Sherlock, she didn't like being away from him, either. I guess I'm pathetic too, Sherlock, she thought.

She turned the key to open her flat and, standing between the television and her coffee table, was a pygmy goat. It was a measure of how much one learned to expect the ridiculous and the sublime when one was attached to Sherlock Holmes that, rather than scream or or let out a surprised profanity, she merely called out Sherlock's name calmly.

"Yes, I'm in the kitchen."

Molly asked in she calmest voice, "Umm, Sherlock, why is there a goat in my living room?"

"It's a pygmy goat."

"Yes, I know Sherlock, but why is he in my living room?"

Sherlock came out into the living room and hugged Molly in greeting. Seeing them embrace, the pygmy goat ran over and got between their two sets of legs, as if asking for a group hug.

"It's a she, not a he. Isn't she adorable?" He bent over to pet the goat, a wide smile on his face.

"Again, Sherlock, why is she in my flat?"

"Well, I couldn't take her to Baker Street, with all my chemicals laying around. Goats will eat anything near their mouths and you know what trouble she could get into at 221B. By the way, sorry about your comforter."

"My comforter? . . . ok, we'll get back to that later. Right now, I'm wanting to stick to the main question: why is she here?"

"I just told you . . . "

"Fine, yes, but why do you have a goat at all?"

"A pygmy goat." Seeing Molly's exasperated look, Sherlock knew he had to continue. "You know that case I was working on in Yorkshire?" She nodded her head. "Well, it's rather fascinating. You see, the two human occupants on the farm as well as all their sheep and their two dogs died a few days ago, but not from any trauma or any known poison that we've found. The only survivor was Fiona here. So you see?"

"Not really, no."

"Well, there's an excellent chance that Fiona offers us the best opportunity to figure out what happened, if we can figured out what all the others had in common and what is different about Fiona. You see now?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I can see Fiona's value, but surely there are veterinarians and pathologists in and around Yorkshire that could examine her. You didn't need to bring her to London."

"Yes, well, you see, that's true, but, in order to examine her fully, they would have to perform a necropsy. They'd have to kill her to examine her."

"That would be standard procedure, yes."

"Well, just look at her." Sherlock took Fiona's face in his hands and lifted it so that the goat's eyes met Molly's.

"Oh Lord, Sherlock." Molly rubbed her temples, finding herself getting what she called a "Sherlock headache." She continued, "Ok, so you propose to have someone examine her without conducting a necropsy? Do you have someone in mind?"

At this, Sherlock looked at Molly with an enormous smile. "The best pathologist I know."

"Oh, of course. I guess it doesn't matter that I know nothing about goats."

"Pygmy goats."

"Tell me at least that you didn't take her without permission."

"Well . . . "

"Nevermind, I don't want to know."

* * *

 _ ****Don't worry, this story isn't turning into a mystery-just wanted to flesh out their on-going relationship issues. If you're enjoying this, a review would be ever so welcome.**_


	11. Chapter 11

From the little research they could do on the internet, Molly and Sherlock found out that while pygmy goats could indeed be counted on to hold their urine indoors, the same could not be said for holding their stool. They soon that found out through experience as well. Although Molly made Sherlock take Fiona out hourly all night long and to sleep on the sofa where he could theoretically keep a eye on her, Molly found out come morning that Fiona had likely ruined her carpet and chewed on several of her curtains.

But even as annoyed as Molly was, she had to smile at the picture they made: Sherlock laying on the sofa with a sixty stone pygmy goat sleeping on top of him. She took a photo with her phone and sent it to John. He responded immediately.

 **John Watson:** Oh dear lord, I thought he was joking when he said he was bringing back a pygmy goat. This is going up immediately on the blog.

 **Molly Hooper:** You're going to have to find more paying cases. Sherlock is going to pay for the all the damages to my flat.

After a few more pleasant texts with John, she went to wake up the two sleeping beauties. "Sherlock, wake up. You did a crap job of keeping Fiona out of trouble last night."

Sherlock and Fiona both stirred and, when he saw the damage, he cringed.

"Should I just make out a cheque now?"

"Oh no, Sherlock, I think you need to learn your lesson and just writing out a cheque is not going to do it. You'll be going shopping with me this weekend."

"Oh please, anything but that. I'll pay double, triple."

"Oh no, you'll be looking at curtains and comforters and carpets until you go colour-blind. Now, just go take your new girlfriend for a walk so we can get to St. Bart's and run some tests on her. I think I may know a veterinarian that might be able to assist."

* * *

Molly and Sherlock earned quite a few double-takes walking a pygmy goat from Molly's flat to St. Bart's. Molly had indeed been able to get Dr. Abigail Lynley, a consulting veterinarian from the London Zoo, help her figure out what tests should be done on Fiona and what to look for. Molly didn't even know what constituted a fever in a pygmy goat. What was Sherlock thinking, having her do this examination? But, for all Sherlock's vaunted intellectual capabilities, she knew this was a purely emotional decision on his part.

Half way through the day of testing, interrupted frequently by Molly having to attend to her other duties supervising autopsies done by others, Dr. Lynley pulled Molly aside away from Sherlock to tell the pathologist what she already knew.

"There's only so much we can find out with these tests, you know that right?" Molly nodded sadly, knowing where Dr. Lynley was heading. "If the issue is still in doubt after we get these results back, there's only one way to continue."

"A necropsy, I know." Molly looked at Sherlock, attending, as he had been all morning, to Fiona. Please, Molly thought, let these tests show something.

But soon developments in the case deemed the worst case scenario for Fiona entirely unnecessary.

Molly and Dr. Lynley were looking at the results of some bloodwork when DI Lestrade walked into the lab, looking annoyed at Sherlock, a look that he had had plenty of practice perfecting over the years.

"Well, Sherlock, all morning I've had to listen to several members of the Yorkshire constabulary screaming bloody murder at me, telling me that the consulting detective that I recommended to them absconded with a key piece of evidence from a potential crime scene." He pointed to Fiona, standing oblivious next to Sherlock. "At least you could have the decency to try and hide her rather than flaunt it."

"We are endeavoring to find out why Fiona here—"

"Fiona?" Lestrade laughed humorlessly.

"—why Fiona here is perfectly fine while the others on the farm have . . . "

"You're not endeavoring nothing," Lestrade barked at Sherlock.

"Pardon me? That was a double-negative, so I'm not sure what . . . "

"You're not doing anything with her. She's coming with me and the fellas I have standing outside the lab, so if you were planning to make a run with her, you should know that they have my permission to shoot you." Sherlock straightened up, indignant. "Besides," Lestrade continued, "there's no need for it anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"The case has been solved this morning. They got a confession from a farm hand. He went up to the farm a few nights ago, wanting to get back pay he thought they owed him. He quarreled with the husband, pulled a large syringe filled with air out and emptied it into his veins. Then he went through the farm and did the same to all the animals. Then the wife came home from shopping and he did her. She came home right as he was about to come to the goat. Once he did off the wife, he left, forgetting all about Fiona here. He had a long history of violence and mental illness. So, you see, the case is closed."

"So, what happens to her now?" Sherlock asked, looking down at the goat.

"Everything the couple owned goes to their son, who lives here in London. We've got orders to pick her up and deliver her to a livestock auction house in Essex, which, by the way, will take up all of my day, thank you very much Sherlock."

"Auctioned off like chattel?"

"She is chattel, Sherlock," Lestrade reminded him.

Molly hurried over to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock, she's not going to be killed and dissected. You prevented that."

Sherlock nodded but asked Lestrade, "How much do they want for her?"

"Sherlock," said Molly gently, seeing the direction of his mind, "we can't keep her in a flat in London. That's not the life for a pygmy goat, is it Dr. Lynley?"

"Goats love to run around freely, Mr. Holmes. A country home with a large park might suit, but a small flat in the center of the city? It's not much of a life for her."

"No, no, I suppose not," Sherlock agreed sadly. Everyone stood around awkwardly for a few seconds. Then Sherlock asked Lestrade, "Can I walk her one more time before I hand her over?" Lestrade looked dubious, but Sherlock added, "Your men can come and watch, guns drawn if need be." Molly gave Lestrade a pleading look on Sherlock's behalf.

"Fine," Lestrade relented, "you can have 15 minutes, then I'm ordering them to fire at will." Sherlock nodded appreciatively and took Fiona out for one last walk.

"Thank you, Greg," Molly said after the door closed behind Sherlock.

"Yeah, did you see the look on his face? It's like I just drowned his puppy." Molly winced at Lestrade's metaphor, remembering the way Sherlock had turned the memory of his childhood best friend into the memory of having a dog and then having that friend/imaginary dog drowned by his sister. Lestrade didn't know the whole story, only pieces, so she didn't blame him for using such an awful analogy. But now Molly felt even worse for Sherlock, remembering the extent to which things and people he loved so often brought him pain.

"Well, I'll be off then, since nothing more is needed of me here," Dr. Lynley said, gathering her things to leave.

At the same time, Lestrade also seemed poised to leave the lab. "I'll wait for Sherlock and that damn goat downstairs. Good to see you as always Molly."

"Wait!" Molly said loudly. Lestrade and Dr. Lynley both turned to look at her.

"Are you talking to her or me? Lestrade asked.

"Both of you."


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning at 6:30 am, Sherlock received a text, waking him up. Molly was still sleep beside him.

 **John Watson:** _You, Molly, and your goat made the papers this morning._

 **Sherlock Holmes:** _What are you talking about?_

 **John Watson:** _Someone took a photo of you and Molly walking that goat. Sold it to the papers. It's all over the place._

Sherlock got up quietly so as to not wake Molly, got dressed, and headed to the corner coffee shop where he bought a couple of tabloid newspapers and some breakfast. By the time he had come back to Molly's flat, she was just waking up.

"Where were you?" Molly asked.

"Getting the papers," he replied absently.

"Why? Did something happen?"

"We happened."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock held out one of the newspapers with the photo of the threesome. Then he handed her another newspaper with another version of the photo, but this time with an accompanying story.

Molly read the story, the gist of which was that the famous detective Sherlock Holmes was apparently seen more and more in the company of St. Bartholomew's Chief Pathologist Dr. Molly Hooper, fueling speculation that the two were more than just colleagues working cases together.

Molly read aloud: "Reliable sources report that Holmes, who resides in Marylebone, has been seen at all hours coming and going from Dr. Hooper's trendy flat in Cheapside. The photo taken yesterday of Holmes and Hooper walking what appears to be a pygmy goat from her flat to St. Bart's has people taking to twitter to speculate about the strange threesome, some using hashtag 'sherlolly' and others using hashtag 'walkingyourgoat.'"

Molly just laughed and handed Sherlock back the paper. Sherlock looked confused. "What does 'hashtag sherlolly' mean?" he asked.

"Oh it's this stupid thing people do—smooshing two names of a couple together to form one made-up name. You know, like Bennifer or Brangelina." He just shook his head, not knowing who either of those couples are.

"What could people possibly have to say on Twitter about all this?" To satiate his curiosity, he took out his cell phone and tapped his Twitter app. "Here's one: 'I certainly hope the woman and not the goat is the one that's the girlfriend. Never know with Sherlock Holmes.' Here's another one: 'I hope Dr. Hooper comes to her senses. SH seems like a total jackwad.' What the hell?"

"Stop reading them, Sherlock."

"Oh here's one that's a total word salad. Makes no sense whatsoever. 'Come on, we all know Dr. Hooper is just Sherlock's beard.'" Molly just shook her head and tried not to laugh. Sherlock continued, "Beard? Could that have been an unfortunate autocorrect or something, because it makes no sense in that context. But this tweeter thinks himself or herself very intellectual because the hashtag is the name of philosopher John Locke, only, get this, they misspell his last name by leaving off the 'e' at the end of Locke. Although, for the life of me, I can't make sense of the tweet or what the hell it has to do with Lockean philosophy."

Molly thought about explaining the tweet to him, but thought the better of it. Sometimes, when it comes to Sherlock, ignorance is bliss.

"I'm going to reply to this moron and see just what he's on about." At that, Molly hurried over and snatched his phone out of his hand. "What?" he protested.

"Don't respond. Not to any of them. Please stay off of Twitter today."

"But I . . . "

She interrupted him and leaned in right next to his ear and spoke in a breathy voice that she knew Sherlock had a hard time resisting. "Sherlock, if you are a good boy and stay off of Twitter all day today, tonight you can come in my mouth."

Sherlock let out a strangled moan. "Um, Twitter, what's Twitter?" Molly smiled and kissed him.

* * *

Molly had checked Twitter throughout the day, making sure that Sherlock made good on his promise. She was pleased that he seemed to be behaving online, at least. What worried her was what he might be doing offline all day. She knew John had his medical duties today and that Sherlock had no cases that she knew of. He's a grown man, she told herself, what harm could he do? Oh dear, she shouldn't have opened up that Pandora's Box of possibilities.

He texted him frequently during the day but, each time, he responded with "Busy. Can't chat right now." Finally, at 4:30, after five such text responses, she left for the day and walked back to her flat. As she approached her building, she was surprised to find two apparent workmen of some kind in her outer doorway talking to Sherlock. They seemed to be handing him a bill, which he slipped into his pocket. Just as those men walked away, Molly reached Sherlock.

"Who were they? Did something need to be repaired in the flat?"

"They were carpet installers."

"You got a new carpet installed? Today already?"

"Yes, come see." They walked to the door of her flat and went inside. Sherlock pointed to the new carpet. "It's exactly like the old carpet." Then he pointed to the curtains Fiona had chewed. "They are exact replicas of your previous curtains as well."

"How did you—so fast!"

"Ummm, well, I might have used Mycroft's name to convince people that we were using the flat for national security purposes and that decorations had to be exact or people would die."

"Sherlock, you didn't."

"No, no, I just paid them a lot of money."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble, really."

"Yes, I did. I came home with a goat, for God's sake."

"A pygmy goat," Molly said through a smile. They both laughed at that.

"I just realized that I've been asking a lot of you and not giving near enough in return."

"No one's keeping score, Sherlock."

"In any case, the one thing I was not able to get an exact replica of—and I can still try if you don't like it—is your comforter." He picked up a large bag containing a patchwork quilt. He seemed embarrassed to give it to her. "My mother actually made it for you," he said, clearing his throat. "She wanted to give it to you for Christmas, but I asked if I could give it to you early because I ruined your current bedding. She agreed. If you don't like it—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. I absolutely love it. I'll have to write your mother a note telling her much it means to me."

"She likes you very much, I think." Molly smiled.

"I can't believe you did all this in less than eight hours."

"Well, I had to keep busy and stay off of Twitter." He grinned sheepishly. "So, um, is it technically 'tonight' yet?"


	13. Chapter 13

_**No I didn't forget about the goat. - FC**_

* * *

Sherlock lay awake next to Molly, watching her sleep, early on what he thought would be an ordinary Saturday. Normally he had to work hard to keep his mind from racing from thought to thought at quiet moments like these. The Sherlock of six months ago would have never been able to be this peaceful doing nothing. Molly had done that. Before Molly, he had been a bundle of fears centered around anyone getting too close and of losing them. Those fears certainly hadn't abated completely, as he still wondered when Molly would get tired of his shit, but they didn't keep him from trying to find some happiness in the moment.

Molly stirred and only slightly jumped at seeing Sherlock watching her. "You've got to stop doing that," she said, laughing. He pulled her in for a kiss and it was clear where this was going. "No, no, no, Sherlock. We've got plans today."

"Ugh. I already took care of repairing Fiona's damage, so there's no need to carry through on your threat to make me go shopping."

"Come on, Sherlock. We have Rosie for the day."

"We have? When did that happen?"

"Nevermind about that, just get dressed. John will be here any minute. And wear comfortable walking clothes. We're going to the zoo."

Sherlock's slight annoyance subsided a bit at that announcement. In truth, he loved animals and a trip to the zoo with Molly and Rosie sounded, well, nice, actually.

* * *

John arrived with what seemed to be enough toddler accoutrements for her to move in with Molly. Whole armies seemed to move with less equipment through the desert than a baby in the city these days.

"Why don't you come, John? You don't have surgical duties today," Sherlock wondered.

"I'm helping a friend."

"What friend?"

"A friend, Sherlock. What does it matter?"

"You don't have any other friends."

"I have plenty of friends, Sherlock."

"Sherlock, leave it," Molly implored. Still, Sherlock remained curious. "I'll text you when we're on our way back, John. We'll take good care of Rosie. We promise."

"Great, see you later then," John said to Molly. Sherlock could have sworn he saw John wink at her.

When John left and closed the door behind him, Sherlock asked, "Did he wink at you?"

"No, no, don't be ridiculous, let's get ready to go." Sherlock had the impression that she was lying to him.

* * *

On the way to the London Zoo, Sherlock looked at his cell phone. John would have been horrified to know that Sherlock could track his friend's whereabouts through his cell phone. Right now John seemed to be heading in the direction of the Clerkenwell area, Sherlock thought, running through what connections there might be between Clerkenwell and John. None came readily to mind.

Once they reached Regent's Park, home of the London Zoo, however, Sherlock forgot about obsessing over John's whereabouts. He was simply having too much fun. Sherlock enjoyed telling Rosie unusual details about many of the animals in the zoo, despite the fact that the child couldn't understand a word he said. Molly too was impressed with Sherlock's command of zoological information. Just how big is that damn mind palace, she wondered, not for the first time.

"Now, the insect exhibits here are some of my favorites. I've often come here to study up on some or another larvae I've found in a decaying body. You'd be surprised what you can find out about a person from what eats him. Oh, actually, _you_ wouldn't be surprised at all, but most other people would. It's down this way," Sherlock said excitedly.

"Actually, Sherlock, I thought Rosie would like to go to the Petting Zoo, give her a chance to use her tactile senses a little bit."

"Oh, oh, yes, sure, that is probably a good idea," said Sherlock, only a little disappointed.

As they got closer to the Petting Zoo, he noticed that Molly appeared to be getting more and more anxious and excited. Sherlock thought it odd. But then she stopped them right at the entrance to the Petting Zoo area and turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Instead of answering verbally, Molly merely pointed in the direction of the enclosed area, where a few children were clustering around what appeared to be a pygmy goat.

"Is that, is that Fiona?" Molly nodded. "You did this?"

"I got the phone number of Fiona's new owner—the son of the murdered Yorkshire farmers—from Greg. I asked how much he wanted for her. And I asked Dr. Lynley," sensing Sherlock's non-recognition of the name, "the vet that helped us with Fiona? She consults here at the Zoo. I asked her if I could donate her to the Petting Zoo. And here she is. You can visit her anytime, now, Sherlock. And she gets to live an amazing life with other goats and kids adoring her. Doesn't she look happy?"

Sherlock was getting choked up. "You did this for me?"

"Well, yes, and Fiona." Sherlock leaned down, picked Molly up, and spun her around.

"You are the most amazing person in the entire world, Molly Hooper."

"Oh, shut up Sherlock and go take Rosie in to meet Fiona." He kissed her with unabashed excitement, picked up Rosie, and entered the Petting Zoo. Molly had to keep herself from tearing up. First task of the day accomplished.


	14. Chapter 14

"Good Lord, Sherlock, I think you went overboard with all the stuffed animals," Molly complained jokingly as she and Sherlock loaded up the taxi with a sleeping Rosie and her six new toys. "Every time she pointed in the general direction of something, you bought it."

Once all three of them were secured inside the taxi, the driver asked them for their destination. Sherlock started to give Molly's address when she stopped him and handed the driver a slip of paper with an address on it. "Please take us here," she requested. To this, Sherlock looked over at her and gave her a raised eyebrow. "We're not done today, yet, Sherlock."

"Am I allowed to know our next destination?"

"Nope." At this, Sherlock sighed.

"Fine, I'll indulge you for now, Molly Hooper, but don't think that just because I'm hopelessly obsessed with your body that I'll just follow you around like a puppy."

"Sherlock!" Molly shushed him, embarrassed to be overheard by the taxi driver.

"Oh, who am I kidding? I'll follow you anywhere as long as you let me inside . . . "

"SHERLOCK!"

" . . . your laboratory. What did you think I was going to say?" He smirked, happy that to see her deep red blush.

As the ride went on, Sherlock enjoyed trying to guess the eventual destination based on the streets the taxi driver was taking. He searched his vast internal London map in search of family-friendly activities that could be at the imagined destination. When they crossed the river into Battersea, he thought he'd deduced the answer.

"Ah, Battersea Park Children's Zoo. Apparently we're not all Zoo-ed out for today," Sherlock announced triumphantly. Molly said nothing, just sitting there smugly. When the taxi continued down past the entrance to Battersea Park and, instead of turning into the park, went the other way, Sherlock appeared very put out that this deduction proved wrong. Even about the littlest, most unimportant thing, Sherlock simply hated to be wrong.

He recalculated what else could be toddler-friendly in the Battersea and greater Clapham areas, but, before his mind could cycle through the possibilities, the taxi stopped in front of Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. Sherlock peered out in confusion while he paid the cab fair. Molly gathered Rosie's too-many stuffed animals and Sherlock picked her up in his arms.

"Molly?"

"We're getting a dog, Sherlock."

Sherlock at first didn't seem to compute what she had said. "A dog? I don't . . . I mean . . . You mean to say . . . "

"Sherlock," Molly teased, "pick a sentence and finish it."

"We're getting a dog?"

"Yes, if you want one."

Sherlock practically yelled in excitement. "Fuck yes I want a dog!" But Sherlock checked himself for his obvious over-excitement. "You mean it?"

"Yes, of course, I mean it. Couple of conditions, though. I can't take the dog to work, you can. So you have to do most of its care-taking during the day. You'll be with it much more of the time than I will."

"Of course, of course, yes, absolutely."

"Well, let's go in then." And they did. Rosie was awake again and excited to see all the doggies. For his part, Sherlock was nearly apoplectic trying to come up with a rational, logical criteria by which to judge the dogs as suitable companions for the word's greatest detective. Molly and Rosie sat down outside the kennel area and played with a gentle older-looking tan and black pug. "Sherlock, I trust you to pick one out. Go ahead, Rosie and I will be here when you've decided."

"No, but, it'll be your dog too, don't you . . . "

"Any dog you pick, I'll doubtless fall in love with too, Sherlock."

"Are you sure?"

"Go, go find our dog."

And with that, Sherlock sped off looking like a child with ADHD hopped up on sugar and caffeine. As he searched down every aisle and looked into every kennel, his mind raced with what he knew about various breeds of dogs. Criteria such as agility, temperament, athleticism, and breed capabilities all competed in his head. There were dogs known for their strength, their loyalty, their hunting abilities. So many possibilities. He fretted over what exactly the rational choice should be.

His body and mind needed a break after two frenetic go-arounds through the entirety of available canines. He stopped to check in with Molly and Rosie, who were still playing with that same little pug.

"Any luck, Sherlock?"

"I don't mind saying I'm a bit frazzled by the wealth of choices and possibilities." Molly laughed indulgently at him. He paced a few times furiously in front of her and once or twice absently pet the head of the little pug now in Molly's lap. "Perhaps something in the hound group? Could always use a dog that can find people." The pug tilted his head back and forth, seemingly following Sherlock's Hamlet-like indecision. "Once more into the breech!" And off Sherlock went into the aisles to re-evaluate the dogs.

When he came around again to find Molly and Rosie, he thought he had narrowed it down between a Bloodhound, a Pointer, or a Retriever, but another circumlocution within the building might still be necessary. He was coming over to Molly to explain his current thinking when a certain attitude or pose by her struck him and he stood still watching for a moment. The two of them looked beautiful, these two girls, his God-Daughter and his girlfriend. "Girlfriend" seemed such a slight term for what she was to him now. This day had been perfect. She was perfect. He felt a pang in his chest thinking of how many years he had ignored her, rebuked her affections, insulted her. This could have been your life for so much longer, he reproached himself.

She expressed love so easily in everything she did for him. Look at what she'd done for you this week alone, he thought. You'll never be able to equal that, he thought sadly. She had told him several times that relationships weren't about score-keeping, but could a relationship really last if one side always gave so damn much more than the other? Even now, she allowed him complete discretion in choosing a dog for them based on what suited _him_. But what did _she_ want? He was good at figuring out the facts of people's lives based upon such evidence as the residue on their clothing, the way they wear their hair, or even the kind of cell phone ringtone they chose, but those were superficial insights. Molly could read his deepest needs and wanted nothing more, it appeared, than to satiate them.

But what did _she_ want? Why couldn't his detective's brain peer into her with the same insight she could with him?

He walked over to those two beautiful girls, confused as ever, about seemingly everything, including dogs. Her pleasant, peaceful face was a marked contrast to his doubtful and troubled one. She looked up at him, smiling, the little pug looking back and forth between the two of them. "Have you picked one yet, Sherlock? They aren't open all night, you know." The pug did that head-tilt thing again.

"Yes, I want this one." He pointed to the pug in Molly's lap.

"This one? This pug."

"Yep. That's the one."

"Really? I didn't think a pug would suit your needs at all." Molly looked at him, incredulous. If he were being honest, he never thought a pug would suit him either. Pugs possess neither agility nor athleticism. They have no in-bred skills or distinctive capabilities. They are simply and completely companion dogs. But Molly seemed to like him and—what had Molly said to him earlier? "Any dog you pick, I'll doubtless fall in love with too"—if Molly liked him, Sherlock would too.

"Yes. Hello?" he shouted loudly. "We want this one." A volunteer came out, a little amused by the unorthodox way Sherlock behaved.

"Oh, you want this little guy? That's great. We found him a few months ago roaming the Docklands. He was severely underweight and his coat was in terrible condition. He's only been medically cleared for adoption this week. We have some papers for you to fill out and I should let you know that we estimate that he's six or seven years old and that this little fella has a little arthritis, so if you go on long walks, you may need to have a pet stroller available for him. Is that something you'd be amenable to? You're sure you want him?"

Sherlock thought about how potentially absurd he'd look pushing a pug in a stroller on the streets of London, but then reminded himself that it was only a few days ago that he was walking a pygmy goat on those same streets. He also saw how happy Molly looked when he'd said that that is the dog he wanted. That cemented it.

"Nope. He's it. We're taking him home. He's our dog."

The pug looked up, his head tilting once again, as if listening intently to every word Sherlock spoke. A good listener, that one, Sherlock thought. That's what I need—a dog like John to hear my thoughts. He'll do just fine.


	15. Chapter 15

Getting a sleeping toddler, a pug, and half a dozen stuffed animals from a taxi to Molly's flat was a comical affair to be sure. As they approached the inside door to the flat, Sherlock said, "I'm going to need to run out and get food, bowls, a collar . . . "

"Got it covered." Molly knocked at her own front door and John Watson opened up, smiling at the ridiculous site all of them made. "That's what John was doing today," she explained. "You were the friend he was helping, Sherlock, you dunce."

They all walked into the flat proper, John grabbing Rosie from Sherlock and saying, "I'm just going to put her down in the bedroom." When he walked back out, he noticed all the stuffed animals. "Good God, Molly, you're going to spoil her something awful."

"It wasn't me. Him!" She pointed to Sherlock.

"So, Sherlock, introduce me to your new friend," John said, looking down at the pug.

Sherlock picked up the pug and said ceremonially, "John Watson, may I introduce you to Watson. Watson, this is John."

"Ha ha, very funny, Sherlock. What's his real name?" Sherlock just smiled in answer, so John looked instead at Molly. But she too just smiled. "Are you serious?"

"Perfectly serious. To me honest, John, he's a much better listener." To prove his point, Sherlock turned Watson around in his arms to look directly at him. "Watson, what do you think of your new name?" The dog did as Sherlock hoped he would: he tilted his head dramatically from side to side. "See? He's more engaged than you are much of the time."

"You're such an asshole." All three of them laughed. John then showed them all the canine paraphernalia he had managed to purchased throughout the day, including a leash, a rather luxurious dog bed, bowls, food, and various chew toys. "I didn't get a collar because I didn't know what size dog you'd be getting. I have to say, didn't see you getting one of these kinds."

"I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, usually not good ones," John added. "Well, I suppose I should get Rosie and head home."

Molly protested: "No, stay for dinner. Rosie should sleep more. Let her nap." John acquiesced. "But, first, Sherlock, you need to introduce Watson here to our tiny yard out back." Sherlock complied happily. "John, you can help me start dinner." John too complied and they went to the kitchen to begin prepping the meal together.

As Molly unloaded ingredients from the refrigerator for John to start chopping, John broached a subject that had worried him since she and Sherlock began their relationship. "Molly, I hope you don't find what I'm going to say offensive. And it might just be a case of the pot warning the kettle not to be black, but . . . " He paused and Molly gave him a concerned look. " . . . But I think we both know Sherlock has a way of dominating relationships, of being the one that makes the decisions, of being the one everyone tries hard to protect and defend, and I . . . I guess what I'm saying is, and I hope you don't mind me saying is, don't lose yourself completely in Sherlock Holmes. I and lot of other people think Molly Hooper is a pretty wonderful person in and of herself and I wouldn't like it if you disappeared inside Sherlock's shadow."

Molly nodded and thought for a moment. "No, John, I'm not offended in the least. I've thought about that myself over these last few months. I know it's not a conventional relationship. I don't think a conventional relationship would work with Sherlock. To be honest, I have worried about being overcome by the huge responsibility that seems to enclose us all in his strange universe. We all have to make our decisions about how much of ourselves to give to Sherlock. The good news is that I have a good role-model in you, John. You've given so much to Sherlock as a friend, more than most friendships ever require and yet you remain the amazing, wonderful Dr. Watson we all love." She pulled John into a hug and gave him a peck on the cheek.

A few seconds later, Sherlock re-entered the flat with Watson, announcing at all that "For such a small creature, he produces a prodigious amount of waste. It simply defies the laws of physics."

"I say the same thing every time I change Rosie, mate," John offered.

* * *

The dinner consumed, John and Rosie departed, the dishes done, and the dog walked twice more, Sherlock and Molly sat, utterly knackered, on the sofa, Watson asleep on Molly's lap.

"Molly, I can't possibly thank you enough for today. I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Oh Sherlock, it's what you do when you love someone."

"So you do love me then?"

"Of course I do. You know that," Molly said, in some surprise that he would ask such a question.

"Well, yes, I suppose, but . . . "

"But what?"

"You never actually say it," Sherlock said, with a little sadness.

"No, I don't."

"Is it because of the phone call, you won't say it? The memory?"

"Yes." She nodded, with a frown.

"I see." Sherlock was saddened to hear that the phone call still haunted the relationship.

"But you don't say it either, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head violently in surprise. "What are you talking about? I say it all the time, several times a day."

"Not the words."

"Yes I do. I say them constantly. Why just ten minutes ago, I said . . . " But Sherlock trailed off before finishing the sentence. "Huh."

"What?"

"I think it so much that I convinced myself that I must have said it aloud hundreds of times." Molly laughed. "I'm so sorry, Molly, I really thought I'd said it so much you must be tired of hearing me say it."

"I see." She pet Watson, distractedly. They sat in uncomfortable silence for what felt like minutes, but which was, in fact, only seconds.

"You don't have to say it. You never have to say it if don't want to. But I do, I need to say it. I love you. I love you Molly Hooper."

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." She leaned toward him to kiss, but he stopped inches from her lips.

And Sherlock said, "Say it like you mean it."

 ** _Finis_**

* * *

 _ ****Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I truly appreciate it and hope that it gave you some happiness. Now it's up to Mssrs. Gatiss and Moffat to give us something to cheer about in Season 5.**  
_


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